


bad blood

by frostbittenradicals



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Air Force, Alternate Universe - Eighties, Goodbyes, HIV/AIDS, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6492766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbittenradicals/pseuds/frostbittenradicals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wes had always known that they’d all die young, but he’d never imagined it as anything but quick and bright, a Fighting Falcon going up in flames like a dying star the second its nosecone pierced the earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bad blood

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr last year, but I thought I'd tidy it up and move it here as well.

Wes had always known that they’d all die young, but he’d never imagined it as anything but quick and bright, a Fighting Falcon going up in flames like a dying star the second its nosecone pierced the earth. Not… this.

It’s all _wrong._ Even under the weird glow of the fluorescent lights, the room somehow still manages to be dim and _quiet_ except for the soft, slow beep of the heart monitor above the bed's hard plastic headboard. Nothing _about_ this is how it should be.

When Hobbie’s pale gray eyes flicker open and rest on his face for a few passing seconds, it strikes Wes for the hundredth time that they’re the only trace of _him_ left, trapped in a body that isn’t, that _can’t_ be his _._ Even the half-open eyelids above them have become tinged brownish-purple over the past week, matching the color of the quarter-sized mark on his partner’s near forearm. His cheeks are hollow and his clavicles jut out from beneath his fragile skin like the peaks of mountains. The corner of his mouth twists upward ever-so-slightly, lifting the sore at its right corner.

“I love you, you know,” he whispers, watching him closely.

“Yeah.” Wes’ voice hardly sounds like his own. How is Hobbie more okay with this than he is? He’s not even the one _dying._

Klivian pauses. “I know this isn’t easy for you, Wes. Please try to understand. This is what I want. I’d like to be in control of when and how I go." He looks at him with caution. "It’s the only thing I really have left to decide for myself.”

“I just–” His voice cracks and his vision grows fuzzy. Wes gestures lamely and makes another attempt at speaking coherently. “I _don’t_ understand. There are medicines, there’s been research– But you’re just…. You’re _giving up,_ Hobbie, and I don’t _understand._ ”

“I’m not giving up, Wes. I can’t win this. I know you’re not enough of a fool to think that I can…" He furrows his brow, carving creases over the bridge of his nose. "The ‘cure’ is worse than the disease. Do you know what AZT does to people? It only gives you a few more months, and you’re suffering the whole time… You saw what happened to Biggs. That’s not how I want my life to end.” He pauses. “You know me better than that.”

Wes wipes at his face, feeling incredibly childlike, and it feels like a new wave of hot, bitter tears runs down his cheeks the second his hand is no longer in contact with the damp skin. The past week has made it raw. “How aren’t you angry? They did this to you. I’m livid and you’re just… It’s like you just don’t _care_ , Hobbie! I _do_ know you better than that. They let you down! You gave your life for them and they–they–”

The blankets shift and Hobbie reaches out and takes his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. His thin fingers are so cold, as if they haven’t even waited for him to die yet. 

“They had no way of knowing, Wes,” he says softly. “None of us did.”

“They had to! If they know that you have it, then how didn’t they know that guy did? All they had to do was run a test – a stupid Goddamn blood test and this never would’ve happened! They’re Walter Reed and they _killed you!_ How don’t you _see_? How don’t you _see?_ ”

He just shakes his head. “ _Nobody_ knows anything about AIDS. He probably didn’t _have_ symptoms when he gave blood. I just as easily could’ve given it to you if you weren’t at Baker, Wes. It’s nobody’s fault.”

“That’s not _true!_ Yes it is! It’s _theirs_ … ” Wes’ words deteriorate into incoherent sobbing and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his face into his hands. 

“Don't cry.” A soft, grim laugh lifts the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of the _old_ Hobbie other than the breathlessness of it. "I'm not dead yet." It’s evident enough that he’s trying to be reassuring, but Wes doesn’t even know if _Hobbie_ believes what he’s saying. Klivian's icy fingertips lightly brush his scalp as he combs his fingers through his forelock of thick black hair, but Wes doesn't look up.

“I’m sorry,” he at last manages, then sniffs, trying to pull himself together (although he still doesn’t lift his face from his hands). “I’m just making this harder for you. It's selfish.”

“No, Wes.” Hobbie pauses. “I think that right now you need to go sleep. I’ll be here in the morning. Promise me that you’ll take care of yourself. Okay?”

Janson finally lifts his head and watches him with blurry eyes. “I don’t want to–”

“I know," he says gently, "but you’re running yourself ragged. Please. That is what will make me happy.”

Wes stares at the green-flecked floor tiles for a few seconds that seem to stretch on for eternities, then finally nods. He swallows hard before speaking. “Okay.”

His knees crack as he gets up from the chair he’s spent the majority of the past 48 hours in, but it goes unnoticed. Janson hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and gently holds the hand that isn’t hooked to an I.V. pole. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Wes.” The smile that follows brings back a million memories frozen in his mind like photographs.

He all but falls into Tycho’s arms when he leaves the room and presses his face into his uniform so firmly that his already-runny nose hurts. The harsh olive drab scrapes the tender skin under his eyes. Celchu doesn’t bother with empty, false platitudes like _It’ll be okay_ or _It’ll all turn out alright in the end,_ just stands there with one arm around his waist and the other gently rubbing his upper back.

Over Wes’ shoulder, through the tiny space between the edge of the window and the plastic blinds, he watches a set of tears crawl down the hollows of Klivian's cheeks.


End file.
